


blood drawn roses

by boleynqueens



Category: The Tudors (TV), Tudor History - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 08:09:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5998222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boleynqueens/pseuds/boleynqueens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>i wanted to write some sort of tribute to katherine howard, given that today is the day in history on which she was executed. it is a little bit more about anne boleyn (i felt right including her, since they were cousins, after all, and unfortunately met the same fates), but i also wrote a poem dedicated to katherine howard, which i've linked in the notes, of the same title (blood-drawn roses).</p>
            </blockquote>





	blood drawn roses

**Author's Note:**

> http://www.classicfm.com/discover/periods/renaissance/articles/anne-boleyn-songbook/#aQ8JekJwR23is5FI.97
> 
> samples of the music anne boleyn wrote are in this link, several of them are played in the videos of the article.

**1536**

She chases him through the garden, Elizabeth in her arms, as _he_ once chased _her_ in that very first dream, years ago ( _a lifetime ago!_ ) hair down and swinging around her shoulders, where now it is held back, in the style of a mother, a woman of more years. Her gown is the same yellow, although a different cut, of course.

It is the same place where he promised her marriage, promised her the ring she now wears on her finger.

"Your Majesty--"

"Do not speak to me!"

"Ever since your fall from your horse I find you much changed. And I was so, so afraid, I was on my knees in prayer for your life for hours and hours…"

"As you should be, for your King!"

"But I did not even think to fear _this_. You no longer hold any tenderness towards me. It is as if you awoke as another man entirely, but, my love, I know you are in there _somewhere_ \--"

"I have _not_ changed, Madame. It is only that now I know certain truths, that I did not know before."

"They are lies, I swear on my _honor_ , I swear on Elizabeth--"

"Let her go! You're upsetting her."

Elizabeth has started to cry, and Anne kisses her atop her head before letting her down, "stay close, my darling," she says, and Elizabeth puts her small hands in her mouth before running to the grass, examining the little daisies with particular care.

"I have had a vision--"

"Wondrous, now I may add witchcraft to your list of treasonous crimes--"

"I would _never_ commit treason against--"

"They say that you have, and, indeed--"

"Who says? _Who_ says? There are those that have attempted to turn you against me, but there always has been, my love, why, why would you listen to them _now_ \--"

"Do you know what happens," Henry spits, cupping both hands around the delicate, pale skin of her throat, "to those that commit treason against their King?"

"Husband," she whispers, intently, softness to his loud ferocity, "I have had a vision. You _cannot_ do this. You cannot be rid of me; you cannot, if you do it will be all you are remembered for, hundreds of years to come, it will be _all_. I fear if you do this," Anne continues as he eases his hands from her neck, "you will be setting upon a dark path, a path you will not be able to turn from, you will do so _again_ to some other wife, I have seen it. I have _seen_ it,” Anne says with such certainty that Henry stills.

"I have _already_ been rid of one wife," Henry says carefully, "you do recall her death, do you not?"

"You put no trial against her, she may have been banished from court but she was allowed to live in peace, it is _different_."

" _What_ have you _seen,_ " he asks, voice mocking, "tell me."

Anne curtseys, falls to her knees, and says, beseeching, "Your Majesty, I fear that _if_ you do this it will be all you are remembered for, truly, that you will not be remembered for anything else! That none of the greatness you have accomplished before it will be acknowledged, and that would be the _greatest_ tragedy, because, my _love_ ," she says, taking his hand and kissing it, gently, "you have done _such_ greatness. I fear it would be eclipsed by _this_ , any greatness you do in the years to come, any greatness you have done before. And you have been the _greatest_ king that England has ever known, and the people of tomorrow _should_ know that truth."

"You are saying," he says softly, kneeling down with her, "what? That I shall be remembered as a monster? You think that is so?"

"Yes," she says effusively, nodding her head, "yes, and I could not bear--"

Henry removes the net from her hair, gently, tosses it on the ground, and unwraps her mass of long, black hair, moving it over her shoulder, a dark waterfall.

He caresses it before he yanks it, forward, closer to his face, and she yelps in pain.

"Mama?" Elizabeth calls out, hearing her mother, she begins to waddle over.

"Everything is fine, sweetheart," Anne calls out as tears gather in her eyes, Henry's eyes bright upon his wife, "your father and I are just--" she gulps as he tugs her hair once more, "playing a game, pick some flowers for me, darling? Please?"

"That will not be so," Henry hisses, face reddening, "And do you know why? _You_ will _not_ be remembered. You will _never_ be recalled within the pages of the books of history."

"No, no," she insists still, taking a deep breath, tears streaming down her face now, "that is not true, I will become a martyr, you do not want to see what they will write--"

"Aren't you listening, my _love_? It will be as if you were never born, and I wish to _God_ that you had _not_ been. No one will remember, because I will _burn_ your clothes, and I will _burn_ your letters, though I shall be merciful enough to save _you_ from such an end. For the sake of the child," he says, nodding towards Elizabeth, "who I am not even certain is mine, but nevertheless--"

"She _is_ yours," Anne gasps at the accusation, "you cannot doubt that, even if you doubt _everything_ else, for the love of God, she has the Tudor hair--"

"There are _other_ men with red hair--"

"She has your smile --"

"She has _your_ eyes. That is all. But, no matter her paternity, she is but a babe. A child does not deserve to know their mother--even if that mother is one such as you-- had to meet death with burning. You will receive a more dignified death than that, so I will show mercy. I _am_ a _merciful_ king, after all," he says, kissing her forehead with a tenderness that makes Anne shudder, and whispers, "and I _will_ be remembered as such."

"Please do not be unkind to her," Anne begs, "Elizabeth is yours, I swear on _all_ that is holy on this earth, that she is _yours_ \--"

"You know not of matters holy," Henry says, withdrawing, "now, leave me in peace."

He walks away from Anne and Elizabeth. He does not look back,  even as the Queen cries his name again and again, even as Elizabeth calls out, "Papa, where you go?" in a wavering voice, even as the sun shines in his eyes, he keeps walking, and walking, until he can no longer hear them.

\----

**February 13, 1542**

Henry enters his bedchambers late at night, after consuming cup after cup of wine, he finds himself dizzy.

Anne Boleyn is sitting on his bed, moonlight shining through the window falling upon her face, in the white gown she wore as Perseverance, Katherine in a nightgown, sitting on her lap. Anne braids her cousin's hair, while she hums a tune she wrote during their courtship.

"How are you here?" he whispers, shakes his head, trying to free himself from this terrible vision.

"You ordered her to die," Anne says, kissing Katherine on the head, "just as you so ordered me. So she is here, with me. We are family, after all," she says, stroking Katherine's hair, Katherine leaning into her touch, "did you not realize, Henry?"

"Yes," he hisses, "the fault is mine, I should have known she was a whore-- she was _your_ cousin, after all."

"She is but a child," Anne says, shaking her head, "younger even than your own daughter. Do you not feel shamed? Do you feel _no_ remorse?"

"Leave," he whispers, "I _order_ you to leave me at once. As your King."

"Even kings cannot order their subjects from beyond the grave," Katherine says, her voice high and girlish, "though they may order them _to_ it, as you did to us."

"You would both do well to shut your mouths," he says.

"Whatever shall you do if we don't," Katherine inquires, eyes wide, a ghost of a smile on her lips, "kill us?"

"She has _such_ wit, Henry," Anne says, laughing, she unwinds her cousin's hair from the braids and instead runs a silver brush through the auburn tresses, "it is such a pity we could not know each other in life, as we now do in death."

"Leave!" he bellows, running towards them, but Anne holds her hand up, palm out, as if to hold him off.

"Let me comfort the poor girl, for, I remind you again, she _is_ just a girl. It is not as if I may do this with our own daughter. You saw to that well enough."

"She is nothing like you," Henry spits out, fists clenched, "and _everything_ like me, thanks be to God."

"Then I am glad. For it is _our_ daughter that shall rule, in the end, for many years. They will call it the Golden Age," she says, with a smile, "something they will _never_ call your reign."

" _Never_. I have a prince, the son you could not give me, from his sainted mother. Or did they not tell you that in Hell?"

"Oh, Henry," Anne says, laughing brightly, "you think the son of that weak, simple woman could have made a strong, lusty son? He will die before maturity, and the Lady Seymour, who you did not bother to crown, will tend to him in Heaven, and I am sure she will be happy to do so…was she ever even able to hold her son, in life? I suppose I should be grateful I could spend even two years with Elizabeth, given how quickly the flames were blown out on the lives of the queens that came after my own…"

"Go away," Henry says, on his knees now, at the foot of his bed, grasping the end of it, his shoulder start to shake as he gives in to sobs, "please, _please_ …"

 "It is a shame that you ordered the execution of her friend and cousin here; she loved her very much. She could have taken care of her, I regret that now she cannot…I wonder if Elizabeth will forgive you for it," Anne says, almost absently, as she gazes out the window at the moon, full and bright in the night sky.

"Let me sing the child a lullaby, at least, Henry," Anne says, "you did not see her, but she was so afraid, _so_ afraid as she walked up to the block, trembling like a leaf that clings to the branches of the trees in autumn, only to fall from so high…she is in much need of comfort."

Henry, giving up, lies on the floor, hoping to fall asleep and into another dream, but the lullaby haunts him, ringing in his ears, when he feels breath, cool on his face.

"'A rose without a thorn', Hal ," Katherine whispers, scornfully, in his ear, "really, there _is_ no such thing. You should have known."

"That has been his downfall, I presume," Anne says, sitting next to him on the floor, he feels her hand stroke his face, "to assume all roses should not have. But all roses have thorns, as do all women. Try to cut off their thorns, as _he_ has done, and you will find yourself bleeding, as _we_ have bled."

\----

**February 14, 1542**

A manservant enters Henry's bedchamber to find the King lying on the carpet, rather than his bed, snoring.

The white rug he has fallen asleep on is crusty with a reddish brown stain, his nose stuck to it.

The manservant thinks that it is vomit, at first (the entire court was in gossip yesterday, about the execution of that poor Howard girl, slut though she was, about how the King nearly drank himself to death), but upon closer inspection, he recognizes what is staining the carpet from the iron-like scent.

It is blood.

His Majesty's nose has bled, and the blood has dried against his exquisite carpet.

The manservant crosses himself and whispers _God save the King_.

Nosebleeds are not a sign of good health, to be sure.

\----

blood drawn roses: an ode to katherine howard

 

_my beloved called me:_

 

> **“his rose without a thorn”**
> 
> _(but such a thing does not exist_
> 
>  

_compared me to the gifts he gave me:_

 

> **“the very jewel of womanhood”**
> 
> _(i laughed in such joy, we kissed and we kissed)_
> 
>  

_being placed upon so high a pedestal,_

_how_

> _could_

_i_

> _**not** _

_fall?_

> _straight to the block,_
> 
> _the **second** to go_
> 
> _my cousin, the queen_
> 
> _gone when i was but thirteen_
> 
> _**she** lasted longer than i:_
> 
> _the **first** queen that was ordered to die_

_i survived my mother, was but five years when she died_

_i suppose in that respect i was luckier than her majesty;_

_to know i am not leaving her behind me_

> _elizabeth boleyn, less so_
> 
> _having to outlive both son and daughter_
> 
> _a heavy burden to bear,_
> 
> _to somehow endure such tragedy_

_but here is the truth, you see:_

_when you grasp the stem of a **rose** in your fist_

_take it, and twist it_

_and **cut** it (like **this** ):_

> _the flower from the stem,_
> 
> _just to watch it **f a l l**_

_then you, king or no,_

_will have **blood** on your **hands**_

_so as for the **roses** :_

_katherine & boleyn_

_who held on to such mirth_

> _(i for my **life** , and she, for her **daughter’s birth** )_

_the dearest of spirits, (and truly, close **kin** ),_

_i say to you this:_

 

> _**roses** from this garden of earth_

_**do** have thorns,_

 

 

 

> _after **a l l**_

**Author's Note:**

> http://boleynqueens.tumblr.com/post/139264325929/blood-drawn-roses-an-ode-to-katherine-howard


End file.
